


ameliorative measures

by salvage



Series: unfamiliar territory [2]
Category: Ripper Street
Genre: (very brief) medical procedures, Cohabitation, First Time, M/M, but NO KISSING because KISSING MEANS FEELINGS
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-07
Updated: 2015-08-07
Packaged: 2018-04-13 09:35:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4516857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salvage/pseuds/salvage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jackson does, at times, consider if there’s anything he might do to make Reid’s life less difficult. When this feeling strikes him he usually channels it into taking extra care in whatever he’s working on in the dead room, or occasionally, more recently, into half-hearted attempts at cleaning their shared living space. That is to say, he usually does not feel the urge to channel it into what would be, if memory serves correctly, the soberest blowjob he’s ever given.</p>
            </blockquote>





	ameliorative measures

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [Suzelle](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Suzelle/pseuds/Suzelle) for the beta read and for just generally being a delight.
> 
> Please be aware that this story contains description of a wound being sutured.

When Jackson first moved in, Reid’s house was unabashedly middle-class and inescapably pleasant. Jackson disliked it almost immediately. He’s grown strangely fond of it the longer he’s lived there; there are stacks of paper set haphazardly on almost every flat surface, now, and empty teacups balanced on the arm of a chair, on the mantelpiece above the fireplace. The dining room is coated with a thin layer of dust; neither he nor Reid has stepped foot in it for weeks. There are circles of wax ruining the end tables in the sitting room.

Jackson has set himself to the task of collecting the empty bottles that are scattered throughout the house, an inadvertent consequence of his attempt to find a full bottle, half-smoked cigarette still dangling from his lips; his fingers are curled around the necks of no fewer than five bottles when a familiar slew of soft noises from the entryway heralds Reid’s arrival.

“Holding a party, are we?”

“Cleaning, believe it or not,” Jackson responds, cigarette in his mouth bobbing precariously; it is not quite a lie.

“Couldn’t find a full bottle?” Reid asks. 

Jackson exhales a smoky breath. “Not a one.” He smiles a wry little smile.

“Good, I need you sober for the moment.” Reid gestures to his face: he has a black eye and an open cut over his eyebrow, which has clearly been rinsed but not fully attended to.

“I’ll get my bag.” Jackson stands the empty bottles on a table and drops his cigarette in one. “Light some candles, I need more light than this.” He waves a hand at the half-burned candles in the parlor before taking the stairs two at a time to retrieve his bag.

Reid is sat in his usual chair when Jackson returns, bruised left temple facing the somewhat adequate light source, hands folded primly in his lap. Jackson sets out his equipment.

“Rough day at work, darling?” he drawls.

“The usual,” Reid responds, throwing Jackson off for a beat with his non-response to Jackson’s sarcasm. “Women whose husbands have been locked up for drunk and disorderly, informing the constabulary just what they think about our actions.” He pauses for a moment. “Through the gratuitous application of a right hook and an umbrella handle.”

“Sorry I don’t have an anesthetic to offer you.” Jackson waves his hand vaguely toward the table full of empty bottles.

“Pain is not unfamiliar territory to me,” Reid reminds him.

“All the same. No man should be made to endure it.” He tilts Reid’s face toward him slightly with three fingertips under his chin, pressing gently into the soft hollow under his jaw. The cut is small but clearly bled a good deal; Reid will be unable to salvage his blood-spattered collar. The bruise traverses the orbit of his eye from eyebrow to cheek, splays across the tender skin below his eye, still a livid port wine color. There is a bright spot of red beside the clear gray of his iris.

“She got you good, didn’t she,” Jackson murmurs. A brief smile darts across Reid’s face. 

“Leave it to H Division to document the novel crimes. I’m quite sure Inspector Ressler has never dealt with assault via parasol.”

“Parassault?” Jackson asks innocently. Reid gives him a pointed look. Jackson raises his eyebrows. “Hey, at least us Yanks have a sense of humor.” 

“Is that what you call it?” 

Jackson barks out a surprised laugh and rocks back on his heels. “I’m afraid I drink far too much to ever approach that dry British sensibility you hold so dear.” 

“If you would make your evaluation, Captain,” Reid says expectantly, but the side of his face that isn’t bruised and swollen has crinkled a little in mirth.

“It’s not so bad, really. I’ll give it a stitch or two anyway. Don’t want to spoil that pretty face.” Reid breathes out a soft laugh. 

When Jackson brushes iodine over the cut Reid hisses out a breath; Jackson almost wants to apologize. Jackson threads the needle and, after a moment of thought, perches on the arm of the chair, bracing his forearm against the back of the chair to steady his hands. His thigh presses against the outside of Reid’s arm. Reid glances at him but says nothing, visibly steeling himself.

“Here we go,” Jackson says. Reid suppresses a flinch at the first prick of the needle, the muscle in his jaw tightening and twitching as Jackson pulls the length of silk thread through. He clips off the excess thread and ties the knot expertly, deft fingers not even touching Reid’s skin. Reid shifts minutely in the chair. “Just one more.”

“It’s—thank you.” Reid’s voice is a little rough. Jackson feels his arm pull away from Jackson’s leg.

“What are Yankee pox doctors for,” Jackson responds as he carefully lines up the next stitch and presses the needle through Reid’s skin.

“You know you’re more than that,” Reid reprimands, voice catching slightly at the prick of the needle.

“I don’t need you to bolster my ego.” Jackson ties another deft surgeon’s knot. He snips the excess thread and begins packing away his tools.

“It is simple fact,” Reid continues. “You are truly the finest surgeon I’ve ever seen.”

“You continue talking like that, I might begin to think you like me, Detective Inspector.”

“Perish the thought, Captain,” Reid says, but his gaze, when Jackson catches it, is soft.

“The silk will irritate your skin a little,” Jackson says, closing his bag with a snap. “Don’t scratch at it.” Mentioning it, Jackson feels the phantom itch of his own recently removed stitches and resists the urge to rub at the pink, newly healed scar on his neck. “Don’t think I’m above wrapping your head in gauze.”

“I will do my utmost to avoid that course of action.” 

His work complete, Jackson falls into the chair facing Reid’s and pulls his cigarette case from his pocket. He stretches his feet out in front of him as he lights his cigarette, tossing the match in the dregs of a teacup. Reid doesn’t comment.

“So,” he says, mouth trailing smoke, “you wanna tell me how some drunk old lady got the best of Detective Inspector Reid?” 

Reid’s eyes cut away sharply. Jackson’s never had any luck at the tables, and for a moment he thinks he’s gambled and lost the goodwill he’s accrued since Reid returned home. But then Reid’s right hand comes up, maybe absently, maybe on purpose, to massage at his left shoulder. Oh. Jackson puts the pieces together.

“Most days it is... manageable,” Reid says, eyes still fixed on one of the dark corners of the room. 

“‘Manageable’ isn’t ‘good,’” Jackson feels the need to point out. 

Reid finally looks at Jackson. “It is sufficient.” 

Jackson exhales a stream of smoke, ashing into the teacup. “You know there are ways—”

“I know.” Reid continues to massage his arm, moving his hand slowly from his collarbone to his bicep. “Laudanum, opium. Cocaine.” 

“And you’d rather work.” Reid looks at Jackson, silent, because they both know it is all Reid has. Jackson takes a drag, tilts his head to the side, breathes out slowly. “Let me see.” They stare at each other for an unblinking moment until Reid relents and leans forward to remove and discard his jacket, then his waistcoat. 

Reid favors his right hand more than he should when undressing, using his left only to hold the knot of his tie in place as he pulls one silk end free, unfastening the small collar studs one-handed. He unbuttons his shirt similarly, revealing pale skin and the mottled pink and white edges of scar tissue, and flinches when rolling his shoulders back to slip it off. 

Jackson stands gracefully and reaches across Reid to drop his half-smoked cigarette in one of the empty bottles. This close, he can see in detail the huge twisted scar that covers Reid’s entire shoulder, stretching from his neck down his arm and across his chest. Reid hunches it in a little, the pain it causes him obvious in the way he holds his arm unnaturally still. Even shirtless, bruised and scarred and looking up at Jackson, Reid’s expression is set and he looks nearly invulnerable. That his skin is warm under Jackson’s hands is almost a surprise.

Reid twitches when Jackson braces one hand at the side of his neck and uses the other to gently pull his shoulder back, flinching his body away from the pain, but he says nothing. He presses his fingertips into the muscle of Reid’s upper arm; it’s painfully tense, hard under the uneven mesh of scar tissue, and Reid’s breath catches in his throat. Jackson gives the muscle another experimental little massage and Reid’s chest quakes with another broken breath.

“I’m sure your doctor told you you gotta use it,” Jackson says. Reid says nothing. “Your ornery silence is not attractive, you know.” Reid exhales an almost imperceptible laugh at that and Jackson uses the moment to gently lift Reid’s arm up by the elbow, his other hand still on Reid’s scarred shoulder, until Reid’s arm is nearly parallel to the floor. Reid’s next breath turns into a pained hiss. “You should be doing this every day if you want to keep any range of motion.” 

“Keep?” Reid breathes through clenched teeth. 

“Are you this saucy with the Sergeant?” Jackson asks as he slowly moves Reid’s arm forward and back. “I’m sure he’d be appalled.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Reid manages, voice taut. 

“Playing innocent won’t work on me.” Jackson waits for Reid to meet his gaze before giving him a smirk. “I know your sense of humor far better than that.” Reid’s arm is heavy but mostly unresisting as Jackson maneuvers it, gently testing the boundaries of his range of motion. The only sign of the pain it causes Reid is the sheen of sweat that has broken out at his temples, his upper lip.

Reid doesn’t respond, but uses his right hand to shakily wipe at his face. Jackson takes pity on him.

“Right. Enough for today,” he says, and with the same care he’s been using lowers Reid’s arm to the arm of the chair. “Sorry we don’t have anything ameliorative.” 

Reid catches his breath, right hand still lingering on the lower half of his face. He uses one finger to point at a small side table. “Left cabinet.”

Jackson squints at him. “You wily fuck,” he says approvingly. Indeed, there’s a small bottle of good Scotch, almost full, in a corner of the cabinet. He’s so impressed he hands it straight to Reid, pausing only to uncork it so Reid doesn’t have to use his left hand. 

Reid’s throat is pale, the underside of his chin shaded with stubble as he tilts his head back to take a long swallow of the whiskey. The candlelight creates moving shadows around his collarbones and the tendons of his throat. Jackson watches his adam’s apple bob up and down. When Reid finishes, he holds the bottle out with his good eyebrow arched, mirth tightening the corners of his mouth. “I have the impression that from you, that was a compliment.” 

Jackson’s only response is to take the proffered bottle and take his own long pull at the alcohol inside. If he were the sort of man to appreciate its depth, its bright, almost fruity top notes or the full, lingering oaky richness it leaves curling over his palate, he’s sure he would not take a second drink quite as quickly as he does before passing it back to Reid.

He feels badly for Reid; he doesn’t pity him, he’s not a condescending asshole, but he does, at times, consider if there’s anything he might do to make Reid’s life less difficult. When this feeling strikes him he usually channels it into taking extra care in whatever he’s working on in the dead room, or occasionally, more recently, into half-hearted attempts at cleaning their shared living space. That is to say, he usually does not feel the urge to channel it into what would be, if memory serves correctly, the soberest blowjob he’s ever given. The thought is a jarring disruption in his normal mental landscape. 

He finds he cannot make it go away, even after settling in his usual chair across from Reid’s, close enough for them to pass a bottle back and forth with minimal effort. Close enough for him to follow with his eyes the mountains and valleys of Reid’s scars, the smooth patches and craters whose warmth and strange rigidity he still feels against his palms. As Reid’s posture loosens, he holds his arm with less painful rigidity at his side, allowing his left hand to slowly relax, fingers curled loosely toward his palm. The bottle is propped on his thigh, his right hand around its neck. His discarded shirt is draped over the arm of the chair and its light blue pinstripes echo the faint dendritic pattern of veins visible under the pale skin of his right arm.

“Is it purely medical curiosity?” Reid’s voice jars Jackson into awareness and he looks up at Reid’s face, feeling caught. “Your staring,” Reid clarifies after a moment of silence.

Jackson clears his throat, aware that it’s a tell but unable to stop himself, unused to being caught off guard. “Not purely,” he prevaricates. He reaches an arm out for the bottle.

Reid holds the bottle in front of him, just out of Jackson’s reach. He raises his eyebrows as much as he can with the bruising and stitches, a clear invitation to continue. 

“Your boys in blue wouldn’t be half as loyal as they are if they knew what an asshole you are,” Jackson grumbles, dropping his arm. 

“Surely it can’t be your fault,” Reid teases. 

“Not purely,” Jackson says with a wolfish grin as he lunges forward and grabs the bottle from Reid’s hand. 

“And the rest?” Reid asks. Jackson isn’t sure whether he’s asking about his first or second response. It doesn’t particularly matter. He takes a long swallow of whiskey. 

“It’s you.” 

Jackson says it lightly, but he lets his gaze track slowly up Reid’s bare torso before meeting Reid’s eyes. Reid is silent, looking at Jackson like he’s a case file missing crucial information. Jackson waits. He’s well aware that there’s more on the line for him than there is for Reid; he’s mostly sure Reid won’t lock him up, he made that clear enough in the way he dealt with David Goodbody, but he could easily find himself out on the street again, maybe with a black eye for his trouble. He takes another drink from the bottle to distract himself, hyper-aware of the way he flicks his tongue over his lower lip to catch an errant drop and of the way Reid’s eyes track the movement. 

“Come here, then,” Reid says, voice softer than Jackson expects it to be. Jackson stands, placing the bottle beside his medical bag on an end table, hovering over Reid before dropping to his knees, pushing Reid’s legs farther apart so he can settle between them. Reid’s lips are parted slightly, his eyes hooded as he looks down at Jackson, his hands still. Jackson leans forward, sliding his hands up Reid’s thighs, the fine wool soft under his palms. The muscles of Reid’s stomach twitch at the contact; he takes a sharp breath. 

Jackson unbuttons Reid’s trousers with singleminded focus, pushing the fabric aside so he can pull out Reid’s cock, already half-hard. He makes a show of licking his lips, glancing up at Reid’s face. When he speaks, his voice is already rough. “You can put your hands in my hair.”

Reid tentatively slides his right hand hand into Jackson’s hair, resting his fingertips gently against Jackson’s scalp. Jackson wraps his hand around Reid’s cock, stroking it to hardness, and pulls back his foreskin before taking it into his mouth. He circles his tongue around the head and Reid’s hand tightens in his hair. When he glances up he sees that Reid’s eyes are closed, his breath quick and shallow. He gives another flick of his tongue, tasting a wash of bitterness, before sinking it deeper into his mouth, saliva slicking the hand he has curled around the base. He falls into a rhythm, hand and mouth working in tandem. 

When Jackson hollows his cheeks, he’s rewarded by a helpless moan from Reid, the hand at the back of his head pressing him momentarily down onto Reid’s cock before immediately pulling away. Jackson grabs Reid’s hand and places it firmly on the back of his head again, glancing up at Reid’s face, the blush that spills from his cheeks down his throat and the pale unscarred expanse of his chest, to communicate his intent. Reid’s eyes are dark, his mouth slack. 

Jackson moves his spit-slick hand from the base of Reid’s cock, splaying his fingers flat over Reid’s stomach, taking him deeper into his mouth. His throat flutters but he continues, tongue flat against the underside of Reid’s cock, lips wet, eyes beginning to tear, until his nose is pressed to the hair at the base of Reid’s cock. He pulls back slightly, Reid’s hand loose on the back of his head, then presses forward again. Reid breathes a quiet, punched-out noise.

Their harsh breaths and the wet sound of Jackson’s mouth seem loud in the quiet room and Jackson loses himself in the unsteady rhythm. His knees ache, his throat is raw. Reid thrusts his hips up shallowly in counterpoint to Jackson’s movements, halted only by Jackson’s hand splayed over his stomach tense muscles, fingertips grazing the hard line of his hip. It’s overwhelming; Jackson’s eyelashes are wet with tears and he’s desperately hard. 

“Jackson,” Reid breathes, voice strained. He pulls at Jackson’s hair. Jackson hollows his cheeks. Reid comes. Jackson swallows most of it but pulls off too soon, feels a spurt of come on his already wet lips. 

Reid’s hand is still tight in Jackson’s hair, the only thing grounding him as Jackson presses his face against Reid’s thigh, beard catching on the fine wool, mouth swollen and raw, and quickly unbuttons his trousers. He jerks himself off fast and rough. After a moment Reid moves his hand; Jackson lets out a little involuntary whine, but Reid just drifts his fingertips over his ear, his cheekbone and the hollow just below, to press his thumb to the corner of Jackson’s lips. Jackson opens his mouth. Reid’s fingertips are points of pressure at his hairline, his tragus, the line of his jaw. He forces his thumb into Jackson’s mouth and Jackson sucks helplessly on it and comes, orgasm washing over him in waves.

Jackson’s breath evens out and they both reassemble their clothing slowly. His fingers are still a little clumsy on his own buttons. Reid produces a handkerchief from somewhere and courteously hands it to Jackson, who wipes at his eyes and nose and mouth, and then the floor in front of him, and then regards the handkerchief and Reid in turn. Reid grimaces. 

“Keep it,” he says. Jackson grins.

Jackson’s legs protest as he stands, muscles aching, knees cracking. He braces a hand on the end table, realizes it’s the table with the whiskey on it, and immediately takes a drink. Its rich taste burns the taste of Reid off his tongue. 

“Thanks,” he says, handing the bottle back to Reid, purposely ambiguous. Reid’s eyebrows furrow together as much as possible with the bruising and the stitches as he clearly tries to discern Jackson’s meaning. 

“You’re—” Reid begins as Jackson leaves the room with a conviction in his stride that he doesn’t feel, muscles still aching, mouth burning. He hesitates only for a moment in the hallway before turning toward the front door. “Welcome.”


End file.
